


Petals and Parchment

by Kicker



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M, Love is in the Air, Mutual Pining, Plague, Self-Harm, Temporary Character Death, Valentine's Day, Yikes, what a set of tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 11:46:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9723491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kicker/pseuds/Kicker
Summary: Every year during Love is in the Air, Kesia receives a gift. No matter where she is, on Azeroth or beyond, she knows that on one of the fourteen days of the celebrations she will wake to find a fresh offering. Magical barriers prove no obstacle to her mysterious visitor. More traditional traps are carefully and silently dismantled, the components placed neatly beside their original location.What is the gift? I hear you ask.A single withered rose.





	

**Author's Note:**

> WoW fandom: hiiiii! long time player, first time writer. I doubt anyone will be interested in this self-indulgent fanfic about my own characters BUT I enjoyed writing it and that is the most important thing. you may notice I have taken some liberties with currently established canon. and probably geography. A WIZARD DID IT OKAY. 
> 
> Fallout fandom (if you got this far): don't worry, I'm not ditching you. this fic has been festering in the back of my mind for eight years and I don't know why it's chosen now to turn itself into words but it would have been churlish of me to refuse. back to normal service soon. maybe.
> 
> on with the story...

Lugros was not always known as Lugros.

Once upon a time, when he was a young man, his name was Laurent. He lived in the far north-west of the Eastern Kingdoms, on his family's farm which was part of a peaceful community on the shores of Brightwater Lake. He had a happy home life, a burgeoning relationship with a red-headed local girl, and an eye for mechanical contraptions that made their farm one of the more efficient in the area. It seemed an idyllic and charmed life, under the protection and auspices of Lordaeron.

That is, until the rise of the Lich King.

As the plague-spreaders rumbled in the East, demands on the remaining productive farms became more onerous. Larger and larger quantities of Tirisfal's stored grain were taken by Lordaeron's military, and rumours abounded of the violence and penalties exacted for any perceived refusal to comply.

The girl was sent south to Stormwind, to hone her emerging magical talents for the anticipated war against the Scourge. Fearing for her safety, Laurent asked permission to accompany her. But his father refused, insisting that he remain on the farm, arguing that they needed all the hands they could get to keep the farm productive and support the war effort that way.

Despite the best efforts, the military continued to take their stores, and their gold, and not only that but prohibited fishing in the lake and claimed all game hunted on lands around Lordaeron for the army. His family, like so many others, began to starve. They rationed out their food as best they could, choking down hunks of rough, husk-filled bread and whatever scraps of dried meat could be coaxed into a thin gruel that was little more than hot lake-water. But it wasn't enough. Not for the military, and certainly not for them.

The situation soon became dire. His father set out across the fields in search of help but returned with nothing more than stories of equally-empty bellies and desperate eyes. Laurent argued to be allowed out to try his hand, convinced that he could do a better job of seeking aid. But he was forbidden. "You are too important to this farm," said his father. "Without you, we have no hope of meeting our quotas. You'll stay here."

One night, after yet another such argument, Laurent decided that he had had enough. Quietly, stealthily, he crept out of the door and into the shadows of night.

All the farms he passed were barricaded up tight, some with glimmers of candlelight shining out through boarded windows, some dark and apparently abandoned. He roamed over to the east, by the wall of mountains that separated Tirisfal from Andorhal. There he found a watchtower. It was silent and dark, with only a single torch still flickering its last from a wall-sconce. But that was enough to reveal sack upon sack of grain piled up against the wall of the tower.

His mouth watered at the thought of the bread that could be made from it, but he held back. There was no sign of any soldiers, no sound of them either. Fearful of a trap he kept to the shadows. Listening to the whispering of the wind through long grass he grew cold as the grave as he watched and waited, wanting to act but terrified to do so.

As the first glimmers of light began to rise in the east, sensing that his chance was slipping away, he summoned all his courage. He darted in and snatched a sack of grain, hugging it to his chest as he stumbled away toward his home.

His mother was furious. She refused to allow the grain in the house. "It bears the mark of Lordaeron's army," she said. "If they find it, they will punish us."

"Then we shall not let them find it," replied Laurent.

"What if they return and see it is missing?" she said. "They may exact revenge on our friends for this theft."

Laurent did not have an answer to that. In the end he did not need one, for the soldiers would not return. They could not return, for they were all dead.

The grain carried the plague.

It took only a few days for the illness to set in. His mother was first to succumb, tearing out her hair and begging for a death that his father refused to provide. She disappeared during the night, never to return. Cries came echoing over the waters of the lake; but by that point cries of horror were beginning to echo from all corners of the land.

Not a day later, he watched his father lose his mind and tear his sister apart with his bare hands.

Not long after that, he watched his own hands guide a blade into his father's heart.

Plagued by violently repetitive visions of these events he put out his eyes in a crazed attempt to wipe them from his mind.

It did not work.

He pledged revenge against the Scourge and headed east but, already weakened by the plague and the pain of his self-inflicted wounds, he fell before he could even reach the Bulwark.

His last thoughts were of his lost love.

 _Kesia_.

~~~

In some ways he was lucky. The Lich King's grip on the undead faltered at just the right moment for him to retrieve his mind. The Banshee Queen had made a new home in the rotten waterways beneath Lordaeron, a sanctuary for all those who had been granted another chance at 'life'.

It did not feel like one to Lugros. Neither a chance, nor a life.

"What are you?" they asked when they took him in.

"A thief," he said bitterly. "A killer."

"And what is your name?"

"Lugros," he said. _Wretched._

He threw himself into battle, reckless and wild; but no matter how far he went, how little care he took, someone brought him back with that agonising sear of holy light that returned life to his limbs over and over again.

Eventually he resigned himself to survival.

His vision was lost and his sense of taste severely damaged; whatever had happened to his corpse between death and revival had not been gentle, leaving his jaw hanging free from the rest of his face. But his sense of hearing had become significantly more acute. He could tell the difference between an orc and a tauren by the sound of their armor alone, not to mention the differing breath-sounds and disgusting personal habits. And the smell. Good Gods, the _smell_ of them. Repulsive.

He still hated the thought of this monstrous invading Horde trampling filthy feet over floors they were not worthy to even gaze upon. But he kept his silence. He was of them, now. He was no longer human. None of his fellow undead were.

Try as he might, he could not forget his former love. He knew he would disgust her as much as he disgusted himself. He knew he could never again speak to her. But he had to be sure she had survived, that she had not been tainted by this terrible blight. And so he resolved to find her, wherever she might be.

He began to walk south.

The trek from Undercity to Stormwind was long and fraught with dangers. Passing through territory that belonged to the dwarves, he drew on his strengthening powers to remain hidden from their sight. He moved swiftly, under cover of night, until he reached his destination: Elwynn Forest.

Just inside the northern border of the forest lay a small abbey, that of Northshire. En route, Lugros had heard it mentioned by travellers heading both south and north. The former spoke excitedly of the challenges ahead of them; the latter gruffly of hard training and brutal assignments. Lugros noted their comments carefully, and broke into the place in the dead of night.

Inside the abbey was cold and dark, and he found it hard to prevent his footsteps from echoing up into a ceiling that must have been vaulted stone. He slipped into a silent sideroom and paused there, listening carefully. The gentle sounds of collective sleeping, a few snorting snores. A faint dripping of rainwater, some from his ragged leather armour and further away from a damaged stretch of roof. Beyond that, a faint scratching as of a quill on parchment.

Not her. Surely not her. A scribe. A library, perhaps. They would have records of her attendance.

He passed through to a back room which contained only the sounds of a single human and a light hint of smoke, indicating a bare minimum of lamps. He entered the room and closed the door behind him, silently turning the key in the lock before removing it and placing it in his pocket.

He inched closer, the scribe's breath remaining steady, the scribe himself insensible of his presence. Lugros circled around behind him, and stepping up close caught the scribe around the mouth to silence any cry, and held his blade up before the man's eyes before holding the flat of it against his throat.

"I do not mean to harm you," said Lugros, forcing the oddly unfamiliar vernacular from his broken jaw. "I seek only information. Tell me all you know of a woman. Her name is Kesia. She came here to become a mage."

Sure that his words had been received and understood, slowly, carefully, he relaxed his grip and allowed the scribe to speak.

"You'll get no information from me," he said. "I will not betray the Alliance. Not to the likes of you."

In response, Lugros pressed the blade harder against the man's throat.

"She was very talented," he said. "And very beautiful. I'm sure you'd remember her."

"There is no such woman here," said the scribe, his breath quickening. "Your questioning is in vain."

"This was... some time ago," said Lugros, slowly changing the angle of the blade until it elicited a slight whimper. "Before the plague took Tirisfal. Think carefully before you deny knowledge of her again."

His victim shook his head. But he did appear to be running out of objections.

Lugros held firm.

Sure enough, after a few moments the scribe swallowed nervously, and licked his lips. "Very well," he said. "There was a woman here by that name. I... I did not see her myself. But I have heard of her... exploits in the glorious name of the Alliance."

What was left of Lugros' heart surged. Exploits. _Exploits_. She was alive. Perhaps she was even thriving. "Where is she?"

"I don't know."

"Where _is_ she?"

"I don't _know_ ," insisted the Scribe, his voice growing louder, his fingernails scratching on the surface of the desk as he began to fight Lugros' grasp. "The last I heard, she had gone to Stormwind to advance her training. I have no idea if she intended to stay there. If she is there, she will have lodgings in the Mages' quarter."

Lugros relaxed his grip. Stormwind itself. The belly of the beast. Walls a dozen feet thick, made of the finest Westfall stone. A thousand soldiers just to guard the gates. Getting in would be easy. Finding her amongst that mass of humanity would be a different matter.

"Help," yelled the scribe, suddenly leaping to his feet and away from Lugros, knocking over his chair in the process, rushing over to rattle the doorhandle. "Guards! A Horde infiltrator is in the building! Help me!"

Lugros reached into his coinpurse and retrieved a few gold coins. He tossed them on the desk, knocking over a jar that sent something spattering wetly onto the flagstones. Ink. That strange warm scent of fragrant peacebloom and earthroot, so reminiscent of _her_.

_She takes the rose with ink-stained fingers. Shyly, nervously, she holds out her other hand to reveal a small folded square of parchment. The letters are crudely-scratched and smudged. He cannot read but he knows full well what the letters say for she says them as she presses a kiss onto his cheek._

A clatter of armour roused him from his brief reverie. Heavy fists began to beat against the door, followed by shuddering blows from feet or an improvised ram.

"Thank you for your cooperation," he said, and melted into the shadows.

~~~

In contrast to the dire happenings in the north of the continent, Stormwind's guard had become fat and lazy, necessitating only the most rudimentary stealth to evade. Nevertheless, Lugros remained alert, nervous even, as he hauled himself up over the city wall and dropped down onto the rooftops. He stayed low and moved carefully, as the gryphons flying above were as sharp-eyed as they were sharp-beaked, and a single dislodged tile would be enough to betray his presence to the crowds below.

The streets bustled noisily even at this time of night, and the air was thick with smoke and steam and sweat from humans and animals alike. Somewhere in the distance, a stable magical portal hummed and buzzed dully, as if behind several layers of stone. That was sure to be his destination. As he headed toward the sound, he detected the scent again. Ink and parchment. More varieties of ink, this time, exotic herbs gathered from other lands he'd not yet seen but sometimes heard tell. He couldn't help but be drawn toward it, inhaling deeply into rotten lungs that seemed to tear themselves apart with the effort. He drifted away into another reverie, another year.

_The etched lettering was neater, smaller, still illegible to him but now illustrated by a small winged figure aiming an arrow at a heart._

_"Where's my rose?" she said, feigning petulance._

_He held it up to show her. Red, deep red, red as blood._

_"Come and take it," he said, holding it behind his back. "If you can."_

And that is when he heard her voice.

It was a meaningless conversation with a friend or street vendor, the words of which were instantly forgotten. With an unwise lack of caution, he inched closer to the edge of the roof, leaning too much of his weight on it too soon. The tile under his right knee slipped. He pulled back and caught the tile before it could slip from the roof, but now he was leaning right out over the alleyway with that unmistakable sensation of empty air below him.

To make it worse, a gasp came from below. "Did you hear that?"

Lugros stiffened. He could feel the warmth of a lamp on his face. Or was it her eyes? He knew he should pull back but paralysed by indecision, he held still, like a bizarre and rotting gargoyle on an ancient castle.

"Birds, perhaps," said another voice, male, thickly accented in a way Lugros had never heard before.

A mutter in reply. "Yes, birds. Here. With all the gryphons flying around. Or perhaps I'm just imagining things."

Gathering himself and taking elaborate amounts of care, he followed her voice from the Scribe's shop well into the depths of the mage quarter. There she parted ways with the strange foreign man who walked as heavily as a tauren but smelled nothing like one, nothing like _anything_ he had experienced before, and entered one of the buildings there.

She was well. She was safe. She could not know that he had been here.

He could not leave it at that.

Waiting on the rooftops, as paralysed by indecision as he had been on that cold night long ago, another faint scent reached out to him. A climbing rose that had risen so high as to wind its stem around the guttering and start to slide its way up the roof. He shuffled close, reached out with tentative fingers to find a flower, whipping out his razor-sharp blade to separate it from the plant. Thus freed from its confines, he held the flower before his nose, his tattered fingers barely registering the scratching of its thorns. The fragrance was faint, perhaps, and faded, but still as sweet as he ever remembered.

Shrouding himself in shadows he broke through locked doors and made his way through a maze-like interior of what was perhaps an inn, perhaps just a lodging-house, into the chamber in which she slept. Afraid to approach too closely for fear of waking her, and seeing no need as he would hardly be able to change the image of her etched into his memories, he merely left the rose on a pile of books before disappearing as silently as he had arrived.

~~~

Things are a little different in the world now. While Horde and Alliance are still at war, they are able to put aside their differences - or rather, are forced to do so by those that would remain impartial - and inhabit the same spaces, the same cities, without the constant threat of violence.

One such city is Dalaran, torn from the Eastern Kingdoms and currently located above the Broken Isles, acting as a staging post for the fight against the Legion.

Another fight against the Legion.

Every room, whether habitable or not, is inhabited. Rough mattresses packed with straw, with fabric scraps, or simply piles of animal skins serve for beds for both factions. And even with such a dire threat on the horizon, the old traditions are maintained. The inns are bedecked with heart-shaped decorations, drunken elves from both factions dance in the streets for the low price of a kiss, and trolls and gnomes alike dab perfume behind their ears and speak to those to whom they would never usually speak.

And another tradition is maintained.

Just before the breaking of the day, before even the inns have unlocked their doors, an observant visitor to the city might see this scene.

A light will go on inside an upper chamber of the Alliance enclave. There will be a click of a bolt, a long creak, and the shutters will swing open. An apparently-human woman will stand in the window, barely more than a silhouette, and look out into the street. But her eyes will not look down - they will rise to the rooftops. She may utter a few inaudible words, or she may not. But in her hand will be a rose, withered and dry and dead. Despite its condition, she will lift it to her nose and experience the memory of its scent.

On a nearby rooftop, a shadowy figure will be crouching, barely visible in the shadows of Dalaran's high towers. In his hand will be a piece of folded parchment. The observer may make out the sketch on the front; if their eyes are sharp as an eagle's, they may even be able to read the words inside it. The figure can do neither. But he will run his ragged fingertips over the surface, feeling the subtle indentations and scores of her quill, and he will experience the memory of her words.

What they had is lost, and can never be rekindled. They can never meet, as they are both too painfully aware of the monsters they have become. But they still draw strength from each other, from this simple annual ritual, this unspoken exchange of words.

_I am not yours, but I am still here. It does not displease me that you are too._


End file.
